


Hooray for Love (Everyday's a New Day)

by CobaltCube (2sp00ky4y0u)



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fun At A Bar, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 19:52:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6342802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2sp00ky4y0u/pseuds/CobaltCube
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One metaphor, two dum-dums, and four shots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hooray for Love (Everyday's a New Day)

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to take a break from writing Rooster Teeth by writing Rooster Teeth. This is an excellent development, but whether it's actually good is still up in the air.
> 
> At any rate, please enjoy and leave any critique, questions, or concerns in the comments below if you wish.

Gavin liked to think that it was the rough edges on a person that makes them worth it. It wasn’t like he believed that someone acting like a complete douche was attractive, but rather, he preferred to compare it to sandpaper: someone needs to test you, to be the question mark to your exclamation point, to make you reevaluate what you’re made of. In other words, you need someone to smooth you down; not tame you, or file you down to the quick, but simply… ah…

“You lost me after the exclamation point thing, Gavin. Try again,”

“Maybe you should work on your attention span then, Michael. I really did have a good point going on there, but then I kind of lost it, and, well, I don’t think I’ll be able to find it again for a while now,”

“Yeah, no shit?”

The two were lounging around the beer keg near the front desk, waiting on an Uber to swing by and take them to the bar that the company meeting was scheduled at. Being the usual idiots they are, they had already placed a bet to see which of them could take the most vodka shots in five minutes, because this wasn’t really a proper meeting. It was more like a get-together that _might_ talk about future plans for Rooster Teeth. 

Burnie is the one commandeering over a bunch of A-team alcoholics. It wasn't that coincidental that he left the email so open to interpretation.

“So about that bet, when do you wanna do it? Like, are we going to do it when we get there or- “ “Oh bloody hell no, that’d be awful. At least let me get warmed up beforehand, Christ Michael,” 

The American cackled. “What’s the matter Gavin, don’t wanna get blasted on bevvies before the night even starts?”

“You know, you’re having yourself a good laugh over there, but I can assure you that I’ll be coming out on top this time while you’re too busy venting your spleen and your stomach all over the bar,” Gavin said, idly rocking his glass back and forth in his hand as he looked outside, his eyes scanning for the Uber.

“’Venting my spleen and my-‘, what the fuck Gavin? What does that even mean?” Michael responded. He pulled out his phone to check the time. "They're a minute behind, tsk tsk. For shame."

Almost a second later, a cherry red Chrysler pulled into the parking lot and came to a stop outside the front doors, and all Gavin did was grin. “Don’t worry about it, lad. I’m sure you’ll find out later.”

   
No, no, not really. Just as expected, the tables were turned when the bet had started two hours into the quote unquote, "meeting", and four shots in the Brit was sprinting into the bar’s bathrooms so he could properly projectile vent his gut into the toilet. Recalling the scene the next day, Gavin was sure that he was making noises that would’ve made the sound designers from The Exorcist blush. Meanwhile Michael was whooping up a storm because he just won one of his bets _again_ , “to NOBODY’S surprise, WHAT UP DICKIE BITCH?!” And the worst part of it by far was how they originally had it set up so that whoever won would get eighty bucks, while the loser had to pay up for both the cash prize and the shots. It was so reminiscent of college days and Michael was loving every second of it.

Yet hen Gavin came back from the restroom, his mood had a bit of a damper put on it when he saw just how sick he looked. Which is to say sicker than usual after a puke, like the alcohol had straight-up sucker punched him. Michael then realized, oh yeah, he ate right before the fucking bet didn't he? So, he offered to be the nice guy and let them split the vodka bill. After all: messy hair, sweaty as an all get-out, an exhausted hunch and a smudge of what was probably puke on the corner of his mouth? Yeah, that’s not too good, even if he did get a good jab in at him for having half a basket of deep-fried crap before taking shots.

“Dude, seriously, you okay over there? You’re lookin’ kinda shitty. A shitty Brit, if you will,” 

“Mmh, yeah. ‘m alright I guess. Jus’ not feeling too hot right now. But uh, retching for five minutes kind of does that I suppose,” Gavin said. He was trying to keep his voice above a mumble, but it was an uphill struggle against the background noise and the conversations of their co-workers around them, who were also on the sliding scale of drunk. 

“Yeah, vodka can be pretty fuckin' brutal if you aren't careful. ("It was literally a bet to see who could have the most shots in five minutes, you tosser...") But hey, at least it wasn't tequila, am I right?... Ugh. Fuck man, I'm sorry. You uh, you wanna head back to my place-“ “MAVIN! MAVIN! MAVIN!” “Fuck off, Miles! You wanna head back to my place in a while?”

Gavin paused for a moment before replying, “Yeah, sounds pretty good to me.” 

“Michael and Gavin sittin’ in a tree, F-U-C-K-I-N-G!”

 

Ten minutes later they called up another Uber, and luckily it was the perfect ride where the driver greeted them, asked them where to, and didn't say a word after that. No bullshit chit-chat. It was delightfully quiet the whole time until she pulled over to Michael’s house to drop them off with a good-bye. The two guys normally didn’t mind the racket of a bar, but tonight was an acceptable exception, a change of pace if you will. Besides, Gavin still seemed a little ill, enough to roll down the window on his side during the ride anyways. 

They walked up the steps to the front door and it took Michael a few seconds of fumbling with the keys to find the one for the lock. The cicadas screamed in the distance and a warm breeze pushed the leaves of the trees about, and there were even a couple winks of firefly light in the front yard. From a sober standpoint, it was probably lovely. But all Gavin wanted to do was find a soft, cool surface to collapse on and sink into for the rest of eternity. Michael pushed the door open after twenty years of stabbing the doorknob with the key.

“When’s the last time I came by here, anyways?” 

“Uh, dunno man. Maybe a couple’a weeks, a month I guess,”

Gavin wandered around for a moment before finding the next best thing to a proper bed, aka Michael’s couch, and practically flopped onto it face-first. Michael grinned at the sight before walking over and sitting down on the side that Gavin’s legs were draped across, shoving them aside as need be. “You okay there Gav?” 

A muffled sound. “Mm.”

“Y’need anything down there?”

“… Glass of water, please,”

“Alright. Glass of water it is. Be back in a sec, okay?”

Gavin was on the verge of crashing into slumber when Michael came back around with his drink, pushing him gently on the shoulder to get his attention again. “Got your water Gav. Y’want me to set it on the table or-“

For the second time that night the Brit cut him off by sitting up and twisting himself around to grab it out of his hand, splashing a little onto the couch/his bed in the process. Even though Michael half-heartedly snapped at him for it, neither of them actually cared. Gavin sipped at it, swallowed, then stood up with the tenacity of a newborn baby deer to go into the kitchen.

“You okay there buddy? You gonna puke again?”

Gavin did not answer, only taking another mouthful of water and then spitting it back out into the sink, repeating the motion a few more times before refilling the glass from the fridge’s filter. Oh, right. Old puke probably doesn’t taste all that great.

They didn’t speak during this process, and it was fine. It had been half an hour since his last drink, so Michael’s previous stupor had been dialed down a notch during the ride home, back into that warm and fuzzy state where it felt like his whole body was wrapped up in a blanket except on the inside. It was just a comfortable place to be in and he didn’t want to ruin it, so he tuned in onto anything from his own breathing to the noises coming from the outside. Cicadas. Crickets. Cars. The wind. Maybe even a frog or two. All muted. Michael did this for another minute until Gavin shuffled back to the couch and he moved over to make room for him. 

“Are you alright, Michael? You’ve been really quiet now,”

“Huh? Oh yeah, yeah, I’m good. Just, I’m just chillin’ out, listening to the bugs outside, all that good shit,”

“Didn’t know you were the introspet-, introsep-, the thinker kind,”

“Oh fuck, you know it Gav. Just over here meditating, tryin’ to reach Nirvana while you’re busy rinsing out puke water in my kitchen.”

Gavin coughed-gagged in disgust, but chuckled anyways. He laid back down on his makeshift bed, this time with his head on the opposite side so he could rest it on Michael’s lap. He both heard and felt him sigh. 

“You’re doin’ this right now? Really dude?” 

“What? It‘s really comfortable. Do you not want PDA?”

Michael ran his fingers through Gavin’s hair absentmindedly, his hand getting caught in a tangle within seconds. “No, ’s just… where am I gonna sleep if you wanna be all lovey-dovey ‘n shit?”

“Do you want me to move?”

“No dude, you can stay where you are,”

“Then what’s the problem?

“The problem, the problem… fuck it, move over.”

Gavin sat up for him so Michael could position himself, which turned out to be a want to lay down as well. After a few moments of shuffling themselves around on the narrow space, they finally figured something out where Gavin had his front up against Michael’s back and one arm wrapped around his waist. 

“Oh my God dude, do I have to be the little spoon again? I don’t wanna be the little spoon again.”

“But Michael, you’re like, the perfect size for it. And I know lots of people who’d kill for something like this right now.” The American’s hair smelled just a bit like his shampoo. Some weird fruity-smelling chemical concoction, probably grapefruit or something. He made another, louder sigh. “ _Fine_. If you insist, Gavin.” “But I do insist, Michael.”

But once again, neither of them actually minded. It was easy old banter, something as familiar and comforting as the physical touch.

In the still of the dark they could both feel each other’s heartbeats, and while Michael couldn’t stop himself from smiling to himself at how hard his boyfriend’s was hammering away, Gavin was relaxed by how steadily Michael’s was going against where his hand rested. There was a mumble about him trying to cop a feel and how buttfuckingly gay they were being, which was responded to with a quiet laugh, but soon they both fell into silence, then sleep. And even when Michael woke up a few hours later with a roaring migraine and the urge to take a lead prescription for it, the man close to him hugged him tighter with a soft little sound, and that sanded down a bit of the edge like magic.

It still didn’t stop him from dragging Gavin onto the floor when he tried to pry him off while getting up.

“Don’t touch me when I’m hungover, idiot.”


End file.
